Trade of Kings
by PurpleMoon3
Summary: After his sterling work in Manhattan, Loki gets voted in as the next War.
1. Chapter 1

**The Trade of Kings**

**A Thor, Supernatural Crossover.**

**Summary: Loki gets voted in as the next War. **

**Note: Title from a John Dryden, "War is the trade of kings." Originally posted as a response to the Thor Kinkmeme prompt in which Loki became a horseman via Supernatural or Good Omens. I picked War from Supernatural.  
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**Part One  
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If Loki finds it odd that none of the guards can see Them, he doesn't say anything. He can't. The gag prevents his words, traitorous things that whispers claim should be silenced forever, and the Others have not acted against him. He sees them in the reflections of dripping water, the eyes of his cold guards, and buzz of insects. He can hear their half-formed words shaped in shadows: sometimes heated, sometimes curious.

Loki knows they are talking about him. Who isn't?

Even shoved down into the dungeons, out of sight out of mind, those moments when he _made_ everyone _see_ him were so, so delicious. He would do it all again. And Again. And Again.

"There is red in your ledger." One of Them then says as he dabs at his nostrils with a mucus covered handkerchief. Even as deeply buried as Loki is, whispers of Idunn's apples being found with infestations of worms has reached him. "Lots of red. Oceans of red. We like red."

Loki cannot speak, but he smiles -painfully, tiny thorns digging into his flesh- beneath the mask and arches an eyebrow.

The other two men are slender as sticks, almost skeletons, and the one who would look upon Loki's unseeing guards with Hunger runs his thumb over a ring that to all outward appearances is nothing but a bauble badly in need of polishing. His hair is wisping, falling out, and when he smiles his teeth are yellowed like jaundice. "Red is a good color. Fresh meat. Priceless rubies. Endlessly consuming fire. Red triggers a psychological need to feed in human mortals."

"Used quite often in restaurant logos." The third man comments idly, taking a seat beside Loki and opening a bag dripping in grease. He seems rather bored, and offers a sandwich that is sixty percent gravy to Loki. Loki allows himself some entertainment in watching the delicate way the man eats. He spills not a drop on his tailored suit. Loki wonders how his guards don't hear the echoing gargle of a styrofoam cup being drained dry.

The others patiently wait for their third to finish his meal, rolling their eyes like overly familiar courtiers, and at long last the slender man crumples his bag and turns his head to Loki, eyes speculating.

"The thing is," the incredibly thin man says. "We are missing one of our number. Always four there were meant to be. Four Horsemen."

The reference is supposed to mean something, but Loki doesn't know what. Though he's always been interested in other Realms, other Religions seemed stupid. Was he not a god? What care he for the superstitions of lesser creatures?

"Our brother," the dribbly one says. "Was an idiot. A small-thinking idiot who got his finger lopped off by a pair of magic-less mortals."

"Leaving his position open. Of course," The Hungry one takes up the thread of discussion, lacing his fingers together in a consolatory gesture. "We all made our mistakes. Picking the losing side, for one, overconfidence, for another."

"But neither of you curled up on the floor into a whining ball of metaphorical personification," the one by Loki's side sneered. "Childish."

"Yes. Well." There was a shuffling of feet.

Loki gave a questioning glance.

"We are in need of a brother, Loki." The Other said seductively, leaning close, and for all he appeared frail and old and disgusting there was something about him that made Loki _want_. "As, we think, are you."

"I'm Pestilence." He sneezed as if to punctuate the statement, and Loki could hear one of the guards down the hall break into a coughing fit- something all but unheard of in Asgard.

"Famine." The skinny one said where he had perched himself at Loki's other side, reaching up to gently tuck one of Loki's stray locks back behind his ear.

Loki turned his head to the last one, who merely bobbed his head regally. His voiced name was like brittle fingernails snapping, echoing clang of vault doors, the fogging last breath of a lost traveler in winter. Death's lips twitched at Loki's surprised, and confused, expression.

"I have on occasion assumed female form. I am the death of all things. I show no favor for men, women, mortal or," he smiled a secret. "_Immortal_."

"But we are incomplete." Famine continued, eyes roving over Loki's form. "And you are so _red_. Dripping. Drowning in it. Beautiful."

Death produced a small ring box from his coat pocket, and presented it to Loki. The chains that bound the god's hands clinked as he ran his fingers over the velvet, creaking it open and gazing on the small gold ring inside. The metal blurred in the dim light that broke through the door from the hall, and Loki could hear screams filling the small cell. Fire lit in Loki's eyes and he knew, _knew_, that this ring was far more powerful than any scepter. It was a sword that he could use to cut into the very heart of nations and make the land itself bleed. It sang to him, whispered of great deeds done, of betrayal and confidence and glory all rolled into one.

Loki lovingly traced the impossibly tiny, powerful thing with his finger.

"What say you... brother?" Death asked at his side, eyes old and patient. A hunter that knew his prey was already in the net, and he had all of eternity to reel it in.

Loki blinked, shaking himself free of the ring's spell, and looked to the three man shaped beings. They were not mortal, and yet not immortal. Not gods.

They wanted to be his brothers. Thor had come to visit him during his imprisonment infrequently. Sometimes he sat and stared like Loki was some exhibit in a zoo. Sometimes he railed and demanded to know why Loki had done what he had done. Why Loki refused to acknowledge their brotherhood.

But you could love without being brothers. You could be brothers without love. Odin and Frigga called him son, but they didn't love him. If they did, they would offer him a good death, an execution on his feet, fighting, for his crimes. He would go to Valhalla then- if Frost Giants were even permitted in those hallowed halls.

But they would not give him the Peace and Rest and Reward of a Warrior's death. They wanted their Jotun foundling rotting until Ragnarok.

Loki slipped the ring onto his fingers, taking a sharp inhale as the power dug under his skin and etched itself into his bones. His scalp tingled, the metaphorical blood on his hands manifesting in the roots of his hair. Red. Red. Red. Pestilence touched his shackles, tarnishing the uru until the worked joints screeched final protest and fell away with a dull thud. Loki removed the gag himself as his jailers arrived, stunned, and grinned at them with bloody teeth.

Red. Red. Red.

He did not need to speak. Here were brothers who loved him, who wanted him, not _in spite of_ his failings but _because of_ them. Unconditional acceptance of the red. Red. Red. Dripping. Drowning. _Dancing_. A Deluge of Red. Red. Red. They looked on him, smiling pleasantly, waiting for him to lead them to their golden fields of wheat.

"Welcome to the family."


	2. Chapter 2

**Trade of Kings**

**A Supernatural, Avengers Crossover**

**A/N- This chapters marks the tentative completion of the story. This is as far as I posted to LJ, but lately I've been considering on doing a few more scenes to expand on the Supernatural aspects the verse, as well as how Thor and crew are handling the revelations. And of course putting Tony and Death in a room together would be interesting.**

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**Part 2**

Heimdall is found collapsed where he had taken to standing vigil over the remains of the Bifrost, pulse thready and eyes closed. Shortly thereafter Loki is reported missing and his cell empty but for the cooled corpses of his guards. From the wounds inflicted, and final fall of the bodies, it appears as though the two loyal, honored men had fought each other to the death only for the victor himself to succumb to his wounds as he crawled for the door, hand outstretched and beseeching.

Yet Loki's powers, both his Voice and his Seidr, had been bound. So said the AllFather, All Wise Ruler of Asgard. Someone _must_ have aided the Trickster. A Traitor to the Realm.

And it starts with whispers of speculations. They start with _Laufey said..._ and end with _How much do we really know..?_ Because the people of Asgard have always taken the words of the AllFather as Truth and the King does nothing without reason.

And yet before Loki ever committed his own crimes, Odin brought a Jotun into Asgard. He dressed it in godly skin and called it his son. Told them to hail it as their prince. He lied to them. He lied to it. He _lied_.

What more has the AllFather lied about?

The mortal legends called him the _Gallows's Burden_, the _Deceiver_.

How could they have forgotten? Such a Silver tongue the AllFather has... very much like his adopted monster.

When Heimdall wakes, golden eyes cloudy with blindness, his voice is heavy with regret and despair and the whole of Asgard hears it. What happened, Odin asks. Where is Loki, Thor questions.

"It is too late, King." The guardian answers. "You were meant to keep him _Loki_. To keep him _close_. He cannot be stopped, now."

"Surely there is still time, the prophecy-"

"I apologize, my King, that I did not see it sooner. You cannot defeat an idea, cannot imprison it. Curb it, possibly, but never snuff it out. Loki is not the bringer of Ragnarok. He _is_ Ragnarok."

Asgard whispered, rumors and a thousand forgotten hurts flying on nimble squirrel's feet throughout the Tree.

On a planet forgotten as little more than a moon of primitives, War smiled as Death looked on in bemusement. Warriors fell around them and entire races disappeared into eternity.

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The Universe is a big place, and War finds it very, very funny that he ever cared about _one_ realm. Asgard or Midgard or Jotunheim. They are all the same in the end, and even if he _were_ to go and cast them all into flames of passion and war, to make the inhabitants _burn_ bright but brief, there are always more. Other Earths. Other Asgards. Other Jotunheims.

When he was Loki he was a god and saw mortals as ants. Now he is War itself, and he knows with the crook of a finger even a mule-headed goddess like Sif -his own priestess, really, though she doesn't know it- would take up blades and dance to his beat. They are _all_ ants compared to him, and the mortals are bacteria milling about his alter. Though they do make a mean pizza.

Still, even indestructible personifications need hobbies, and so he finds himself cutting off the head of a rather portly creature with sharp teeth, and incidentally saving the one who defeated his predecessor. Dean Winchester -the name rings through his head, burning, subtitled in angelic script as The Righteous Man, Brother of Sam, Son of John, and _Micheal's Sword_- pushes the now headless body off and dazedly draws a knife from a hidden sheath, blinking up at War. There is blood smeared across his cheek, but it is not his own.

"Thanks for the assist…?" The human is suspicious, eyes focusing and taking in every detail of what once was Loki. As Loki he wore Asgardian battledress or princely raiment. As War he is a patchwork of cultures and times; black combat boots that stop just short of the knee, loose tan pants that tuck into the boots. He wears a white shirt with frills and lace, over which is an unbuttoned red coat that Winchester might have named from Revolutionary War history lessons but for the material it is made from. War's ring gleams softly in the light from the streetlamp, as does the metal of the sword at his hip.

"I am War." War smiles brightly and winks.

"Must have lost weight, and shouldn't you be curled up in a ball of impotence somewhere? You know, I kinda remember cutting off your junk." Winchesters eyes -mercurial things, like War's, changing color with mood and lightning and if the eyes were the windows to the soul than this was a soul that was _his_- dart to the golden band on the other's hand.

War shrugged. When he looked deeper, he liked what he saw. Red. Dean Winchester was covered in wounds that never healed, bleeding out though not a drop touched earth. And yet he did not fall. _Micheal's Sword._ The man was a weapon, for certain, though not Heaven's. War's fingers itched. "That was my predecessor, Dean."

"So, you here for revenge or something? You're gonna have to take a number, pal."

War shook his head and leaned against a stained ally wall, "You misunderstand, Dean. My predecessor, short sighted prick that he was, thought your brother was the cat's meow. He looked at Sam and saw blood. Oceans and oceans of blood that quenched his thirst or watered the dirt. Called your little brother his poster child. But he was wrong.

"I see your heart, Dean Winchester, and I know. It isn't the _blood_ that matters. It is the _fight_. You, Dean, are a fighter. A hunter. A weapon."

His weapon. War's weapon. The boy just didn't know it, didn't accept it, yet.

Dean Winchester would have made a good Horseman.

Dean lunged, knife aimed at his heart, and War spun on his heel. He took Dean by the wrist and turned them both, pressing close, holding the knife away and squeezing until the hand was forced to release it, clattering, to the ground. War breathed in, and he came away with the smell of oils and salt and a rage that burned cold.

"You ever wonder, Dean, just how long your dear baby brother has been watching you struggle without, doing, _anything?_"

The rage stuttered, War smiled sweetly, and vanished.

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They go many places, many times, and watch battles. War clears the path and the soldiers march along. Famine goes after the peasants who don't fight and the victors of battle both. The former have to deal with burned fields and demanding, unwanted guests while the latter see the spoils their superiors claim and grumble, wanting, fingering hidden blades that War points with precision. Pestilence treats the dead and barely living as his own personal petri dishes, and when scavengers come he releases his tiny children to spread plagues.

Death follows along, the ever-patient big brother, cleaning up after them and checking on his own reapers. But they don't always rampage. Sometimes they take things slow. Sometimes War wants to rest -all soldiers need rest- and so they sit on the branches of Yggdrasil and watch as stars explode.

Loki -he isn't wearing his ring, and this makes Famine and Pestilence look at him strangely, but Death doesn't always keep his on hand so…- rests his head in Death's lap. The Oldest is an aged woman, currently, and Loki feels his heart twinge momentarily as he thinks of Frigga. Death's fingers comb through Loki's hair, separating out the dark scarlet strands and working free knots. They are surrounded by hamburger wrappers.

"Do you know what I saw when I first looked upon you in the Void, brother?" Death whispers.

Loki shakes his head.

"I saw a creature I could not touch. And for one such as I, those are so very, very rare. And so very, very precious. For you may die, but you will never be dead." Death kisses his forehead, and Loki closes his eyes as he is lulled to sleep by the beseeching cries of a thousand armies in a thousand worlds calling upon their war gods for the strength to be victorious. He can see the blood run, the red, as the children of kings are thrown down to bless their martial enterprise.

Death has her reapers. War would like some children too.

He opens his arms and accepts the sacrifices gladly.

* * *

War would like to give his brothers a present. When the Chitauri come it will be a slaughter, because Thanos doesn't care about his own troops, and the Avengers are a small team that cannot hope to defend an entire world. That had been his single mistake as a general. As Loki.

He had created a choke point that his opponents could exploit, and a direct line to the Chitauri base ship.

But not now. Now, War slips in through the dreams of sunlight and shadows, and smiles his own mad grin as dozen guns are pointed at him.

"Hello." He greets, thumbing his ring and humming to himself. Earth's deep space satellites have already picked up Thanos' armada. The warlord may not know precisely, but he has an inkling of what is coming.

"Loki. Nice makeover." Fury looks at him, unimpressed. The inability to be baffled is what War likes so much about the human. "Big brother's been looking for you."

War waves off the comment. "_Thor_ is not my brother. I have a new family, now. One that actually _likes_ me and all my funny little quirks."

"That so?" Fury questions, buying time, and War can feel the undercurrent of power rushing toward his position. The Thunderer doesn't do stealth. Never has.

War throws a journal onto Fury's desk. It lands with a solid thud that sounds more like a leather-wrapped brick than a book. "Thanos is coming, Leonidas, and he is a _Titan_, something even the gods couldn't kill."

There is a hole where the wall used to be, and Thor is standing in full armor, eyes wide, and War has never thought about how nicely the red of the cape complimented his brother's baby-blues. The Asgardian would look even better with his veins opened and covered in it. He momentarily wonders what Thor sees when he looks at him. Does he see the blood dripping from his fingertips, dying his hair, filling his eyes, or does he see the little brother that always followed him like a gosling?

"Loki-" And Thor is reaching toward him, palms open, as though he is trying to approach a spooked horse. His foster-brother would like to say more, is swallowing around sentiment, but before he can an arrow comes flying out of the hallway and sinks deep into War's chest, just missing his heart. Stupid, he was distracted and not thinking, but it is only a flesh wound.

War goes tumbling, the force behind the shot enough that he falls and rolls and the shaft catches on the floor causing the head to jerk and rip through his lungs.

He coughs red, beautiful red, onto the floor at Thor's alarmed shout.

There are hands reaching for him, humans cautiously approaching, but War has no eyes for Barton, or Thor, or any of the Avengers and Agents that are milling about like the insects they are. Instead, War bats large, calloused hands aside and rips the arrow free while staring at Fury. Blood pours out in a stream that slows and a hush rolls over those assembled as they all watch the muscle and skin knit together.

"There was once a man," War begins to tell the story, never taking his eyes off of Fury's one. "A mortal man, named Samuel Colt. He made weapons. Once, on the night of Halley's comet, he made a gun for a man who hunted myths. A gun and thirteen bullets to go with it. This gun, it was said, could kill _anything_. Well, anything but five very specific creatures. Arc-Angels being one."

And, _oh_ there it is. Fury's hand goes to rest protectively on that battered old journal full of stories and theories and, most importantly, diagrams. _S. Colt_ is burned into the cover dark and faded like an old promise. Thor is looking at him in confusion, inching closer, and just this once War doesn't do anything when the blonde touches his shoulder like he is afraid War would vanish like so many illusions. "_Brother, I…_"

"Why." It is not a question. A demand.

War is feeling generous. "Because Thanos is coming. I owe him a debt-" Thor's hand grips his shoulder possessively, almost painfully, and the air fills with angry static. "-and I _always_ repay my debts."

What he doesn't tell them that he is War, and by giving them access to such weapons he is leveling the battlefield. Without his interference many would have died anyway, but it would have been a slaughter instead of a fight, and as War he is all about the fight. His brothers will like this gift, the blood of two worlds mingling and creating new chaos for them to ride herd over.

And if Heimdall is watching…?

Odin has no claim on _these_ god killing weapons, and what the mortals lack in age and individual experience they make up for in numbers and enthusiasm. One way or another, sooner or later, Asgard will burn. War then shakes free from Thor, eyes growing cold as he turns his attention to the thunder god. He sees the question in Thor's eyes. His once-brother is too much of a warrior to keep his thoughts from him.

"Thor, I have a riddle for you. Should you find the answer I will go back to Asgard. Now, _What use is there for a war goddess in peacetime? Who is the first to accuse a king of treason? Who controls the Bifrost?_" War smiles at the confusion, because Thor wants to answer and hold him close and take him back- but though Loki had been perfectly willing to take the credit the interrupted coronation had been as much a surprise to him as anyone else.

Asgard is already a powder keg. War wonders how little it will take to light.


End file.
